Civil building didn’t conquer mountains by force. It conquered them by changing the state of matter under pressure.
The two-hundred-foot Abyssal Patriarch charged up the dark rock approach viaduct. Then, its six thundering legs struck the stone highway like huge pile drivers. Each stride sent earth-shaking tremors rippling through the rock, rattling the brass thumbscrews of Giles Croft’s sighting scope.
Forty feet above the ramp, behind the armored chevron of the steam-crawlers, Captain Kenneth Drake drew his heavy broadsword.
His face was pale beneath the smudge of engine soot. His eyes were wide with grim determination. Along the stone retaining wall, five hundred guard post soldiers fixed bayonets to their Wyrmfire launcher tubes, bracing their boots against the flat stone slabs in preparation for hand-to-hand combat against a living mountain.
“Brothers of Haven-Hold,” Kenneth called out, his voice shaking with solemn pride.
“If this day is our final reckoning, let the ancient stone remember that we stood beside the master builder without yielding an inch. Prepare to meet the beast at the breach.”
Giles adjusted his slide rule, not even looking up from his counts.
“Sheath that sword, Kenneth,” Giles said calmly through his brass megaphone. “Cold steel against three-foot dark rock armor plate yields zero clockwork work and damages your blade’s edge.
